


Heated

by youaresunlight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Top Castiel, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:43:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2300201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaresunlight/pseuds/youaresunlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Smith isn't sure what to expect when he signs up for Bikram yoga. But ninety minutes of stretching at 104 degrees, plus a hot-as-hell teacher? What could possibly go wrong? </p><p>Alternatively, the one where Dean (but not <em>that</em> Dean) bangs his yoga instructor (but not <em>that</em> yoga instructor).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heated

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my dear friend R for being my fresh pair of eyes when I needed them!
> 
> Cross-posted at my [Livejournal.](http://roseberrytarte.livejournal.com/3765.html)  
> 

His doctor recommended it.

Dean had been at the gym last week, as usual, logging yet another strenuous workout. He’d gone for just _one more_ round on the rowing machine, to really push his lats – only it’d ended in a bitch of a strain and now he’s here. He should have heeded those safety warnings.

The studio sits between a dry cleaners and a bakery, and Dean wonders how many diets were derailed by the scent of pastries wafting in from next door. He disregards the aroma, more or less, relying on the same self-control that helped him survive a week on lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper. The concoction was truly vile and, sure, he wasn’t the happiest camper, but at least the detox worked – hopefully.

Anyway, this is a welcome change of pace, going into a warm space in lieu of hitting the pavement in his Nikes; if he’s gonna wake up at five anyhow, then he’d rather be indoors than exposed to the elements.

Dean signs up for ten classes at the reception counter, handing his registration form to a cute brunette in a sports bra, then sticks his gym bag in one of the cubbies before heading into the practice room. It’s as he envisioned – dim, smelling faintly of cedar, a few people already scattered throughout, and Dean follows their lead, rolling out his mat and towel and lying down. He’s not sure how long he waits, the music changing from artistic wailing to Tibetan singing bowls to Coldplay, but the warmth is cozy like a blanket of air and he’s about to doze off a little when-

“Good morning, everyone.”

Dean cracks open one eye, because class is apparently starting and... that voice definitely doesn’t belong to the brunette. He drags himself upright just as the instructor passes by, and Dean can see right away that the guy is _fit_. He’s shirtless (and why wouldn’t he be, honestly, looking like that), all lithe muscle and tanned skin, black shorts the only thing covering his great physique. He sits on the mat and towel set up in the front, crisscrossing his legs and smiling serenely at everyone, and Dean realizes that the number of students tripled in the time he spent relaxing.

“My name is Castiel,” the guy says, hands folding in his lap. “Rachel, who usually teaches back-to-back classes in the morning, is out sick so Hannah and I are filling in. I normally teach in the evening and I’ve gotta say, I applaud those of you who always practice this early. It certainly required extra shots of green tea for me to get up to speed today.”

Quiet laughter echoes around the room and Dean can tell that they’ve all become a bit hypnotized by Castiel’s prominent voice, like he could murmur ‘you’re falling asleep’ and the whole class would be out like a light without him even dangling a pendulum. 

“Are any of you new to Bikram?” Castiel asks. Dean does that awkward thing where he glances to his left and right before tentatively raising his hand and, just his luck, he’s the only one. “Welcome. If this is your first time or if you’re still familiarizing yourself with the poses, remember that it’s okay to take it slow.” He stares intently at Dean, who manages a slight nod and tries not to ogle. “We are not here to compete.” 

Castiel then goes on to explain that Bikram is a series of twenty-six postures, including two breathing exercises. He lets them know that the temperature will gradually rise to forty degrees Celsius, the humidity to forty percent, and that they’ll have two scheduled water breaks. “If you need to rest, please lie on your mat rather than leave the room. As I said, it is perfectly fine to practice at your own pace. We’ll begin with pranayama, or standing deep breathing.”

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Holy shit. 

Holy shit, Bikram is hard. They’re at the sixty-minute mark, or so Dean thinks. What’s important is that they’re in full locust and he is sweating buckets, his towel soaked. The heat, while pleasant before, is _killer_ now and the humidity creates the illusion that he actually _is_ in India. Okay, maybe that’s the point but, god, Dean would give his right arm to trade places with a penguin in Antarctica.

Castiel, meanwhile, is insanely calm, like he’s somehow taking in more oxygen than the rest of them. He just might be a human cactus too because he merely sips on his water, whereas Dean guzzles his bottle with the desperation of a man dying in the Sahara. 

“... exhale and bend your knees,” Castiel instructs as he weaves around the mats. “Reach back with your hands, take hold of your ankles. Be sure your knees aren’t wider than the width of your hips.” 

Dean attempts all of this except, damn, he’s not as flexible as he thought and the sweat is no help either. He’s flopping a bit like a fish, which is embarrassing even if nobody’s paying attention to him, but then he feels two hands on his ankles, gently pushing them toward his outstretched fingers and, oh, he’s officially mortified. Castiel maintains his grip regardless, firm yet patient, and doesn’t let Dean’s incompetence break the stride of his guiding sentences. 

“This is called dhanurasana, the bow pose,” he continues. “Your torso and legs represent the body of the bow and your arms, the string. Don’t forget to take shallow breaths at the peak of the posture. We will hold for five... four... three... two... and one. Release.” 

A subconscious “Oh thank god” comes tumbling out and Dean’s head jerks up in alarm, eyes inadvertently meeting Castiel’s in the mirror. He thinks he spots the guy’s mouth curving into a smile, though that may just be the heat stroke fooling with his vision. 

Sadly, the worst was yet to come, because ustrasana, or camel pose, is the _fucking worst_. Dean tilts his body backward probably eight inches before the blood rushes like a broken dam and he has to stop beckoning his own death. He watches Castiel instead, and the guy’s got to be an invertebrate based on the way he curls into a perfect, reversed D. It’s kind of mesmerizing, actually – even more so when Castiel looks _tranquil_ like he isn’t stuck in that awful position. 

On the other hand, Dean’s favorite is savasana, where he can lie down and just breathe to his heart’s content. Castiel mentions something about this being a difficult posture due to its deliberateness, but Dean’s clearly too much of a rookie to understand. 

“... if you watch a baby sleep, you’ll notice the belly expand and contract. That’s our natural way of breathing. We turn into chest breathers as we experience stress. So let’s return to that peaceful state for a moment before we resume our day... Breathe in by the nose, out of the mouth, entirely through the throat... Our noses and mouths are simply the entry and exit points.” 

Dean is drifting off again, because he’s exhausted and also- Castiel sounds incredibly mellow and Dean could listen to him all day. Wait, what. 

“... remain in savasana as long as you wish. Thank you for allowing me to advise your practice this morning, and please let me know if you have any questions. Namaste.” 

There’s a soft chorus of “Namaste” and Dean hears shuffling as the others peel themselves off the floor. His body feels like molasses, though, so he rests for a while, thinking that Castiel was right about Sandover turning him into a chest breather. 

“How are you doing?” 

Dean opens his eyes to find himself peering up at Castiel, who’s standing near the crown of his head. Castiel’s face is upside down in his field of view and Dean doesn’t know if he should get up. “I’m alright... I think.” 

“It’s intense, isn’t it. You did well for your first class.” 

Dean is sitting now, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Uh, I don’t know, man. That camel one? Pretty sure I was an inch away from vomiting in your studio.” 

Castiel’s answering laugh seems to vibrate through his body and the floor, right onto Dean’s skin. “You’ll develop the endurance with time. That’s why it’s yoga practice, not yoga perfect.” 

Dean huffs, nose scrunching a little. “Was that a yoga joke?” 

“Something like that.” God, Castiel’s smile is disarming, gums and scruff and how the hell are his eyes twinkling in this terrible lighting. “Besides, you look like a guy who hits the gym frequently. You already have the strength so you just need to loosen up.” 

“Oh.” Is he flirting? “Thanks. Yeah, I definitely have my work cut out for me.” 

Castiel hums his agreement, the rivulets of sweat trickling down his chest  _extremely_  distracting, and Dean clears his throat, gathers his things, and mumbles another thanks before leaving. He grabs an empty shower in the locker room and washes off the sweat under cold water, quite frankly impressed by the hefty workout and feeling unexpectedly refreshed. 

Castiel is chatting with someone when Dean walks out, a blonde who appears to be a regular judging from their friendly exchange. He’s holding a change of clothes for a shower but gives her an eye-crinkling smile all the same, and Dean has no idea why his stomach churns at the sight, why his cheerfulness rapidly wanes. From what he can overhear – as he ambles by at a glacial pace – Castiel’s doling out advice on honing flexibility, but the girl looks like she’d rather have him teach her  _in bed_ than verbally, and Dean hates that too for reasons beyond his comprehension.  

“... so if you set aside the time each day to- Ah, just a sec. Hey!” 

Dean freezes with one hand on the door. When he looks up, Castiel’s eyes meet his instantly and, wow, are they blue. “Yeah?” 

“I didn’t catch your name earlier.” 

“Oh, um... It’s Dean. Dean Smith.” 

“Well, Dean Smith,” Castiel smiles. “I hope to see you back here soon.” 

“Yeah,” Dean tightens his grip on the handle. “Yeah, sure thing.” 

Castiel’s grin is bright and earnest, an image that embeds itself into Dean’s memory as he drives back to his apartment. He drops his sweaty laundry in the hamper, puts on his suit, skims a few headlines in the _Times_ , and spares five minutes to check the studio’s website, noting that Castiel teaches at eight pm every Tuesday and Thursday.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

The poses do get easier, like Castiel assured him. Well, camel’s still a bitch that makes him want to hurl, but his body does otherwise learn to curve into a bow without assistance. All that stretching in the heat seems to relieve his injury as well, allowing him to go to work more invigorated than he used to, but the downside is Zachariah gleefully piling on project after project, citing Dean’s recent “surge in energy.” Fucking dickwad.  

At least Dean has an effective outlet for all of this two nights a week. It’s admittedly a relief to unplug and just focus on Castiel’s voice, to not have headphones in his ears, an iPad in his hands, or his phone ringing incessantly with calls from clients. 

He always stays behind after class too, since the session is draining and Castiel also sticks around for a brief chat. It’s mostly Dean ranting about the heat and Castiel indulging him with his rumbling laughs, but something about their words reverberating off the high ceiling and wooden walls makes it feel kind of intimate... not that Dean’s analyzing their interactions so closely. 

It’s after his fifth class (week three of his new yogi lifestyle) that Castiel tells Dean to call him ‘Cas’ (“Less of a mouthful”). Dean’s irrationally pleased to be given the green light for a nickname. 

He _isn’t_ mentally prepared, however, for what happens after the sixth class, when Cas asks how he decided to take up yoga and Dean confesses his undue enthusiasm for fake rowing, how his doctor prescribed the discipline as a sort of physical therapy. He shrugs to convey that he’s fine now, not in any pain, but then Cas says “Lie down on your mat” and all lucid thoughts depart his brain. He’s in a daze as Cas steers him onto his stomach, speechlessness giving way to half-hearted protests that the other man ignores. The protests then descend into low groans when Cas begins to knead lightly below his shoulder blades, thumbs rubbing over the ridges and into hollows. 

Cas’ fingers are like magic, sliding deftly across bone and muscle, and Dean’s not sure if this constitutes appropriate touching but the question melts right along with his sore back, where large hands work their way downward. They alternate broad sweeps with smaller dips of pressure, eliciting a shiver from Dean by tracing the spine, and the controlled force of Cas’ long fingers feels glorious, pressing deep into his skin. 

“Better?”

“Ungh,” he replies weakly. There’s a disembodied chuckle behind him. 

“Is this helping?” 

“God...” Dean breathes into the towel. “Why aren’t you a masseuse?” 

“I was for a short while, actually, but I like yoga better. Think I’m fairly decent at it too.” 

“Yeah, you are.” 

Cas hums in satisfaction, palms just circling soothingly now. Dean keeps his head cradled in the crook of one arm and concentrates on Cas’ touch, the slight calluses creating a delicious friction against his skin. It’s all so dexterous, attentive, and then Dean feels... lips... trailing kisses on his back, between his shoulders, Cas’ _tongue_ peeking out to lick the salt from his skin. 

“C-Cas?” 

“Shh, just relax,” Cas whispers, and Dean wonders how the hell he can do that when he’s got a sexy yoga teacher straddling the back of his thighs. Cas’ hands are still on his body, gliding and warm, awakening millions of tiny nerves in their wake. 

“ _Cas_ , what-” 

“Mm...” Cas’ lips travel back up until they’re at Dean’s nape, and he leaves a firmer kiss there before lifting off of Dean. “I should go man the reception desk.” 

Shit, he can’t be serious. Dean raises his head with a strangled noise but Cas is already on his feet, smirking at Dean through the mirror as he turns toward the door. The bastard is gone seconds later and Dean, abandoned and frustrated, wills his arousal away using every revolting image in his arsenal, walking out himself once he’s somewhat presentable. He retains the good sense to not jerk off in the showers (he isn’t a _heathen_ ), but he does come absurdly fast when he goes home and climbs into bed, body buzzing with vivid recollections of Cas... gorgeous, tantalizing Cas.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

He and Cas continue to talk after every class, though a noticeable tension begins to seep into their conversations. They’re more observant now, each of them rapt in the presence of the other, and Cas becomes a merciless tease with his casual touches, easy smiles, all of which Dean grows to relish. At the same time, Dean wants to know where exactly they’re going with this, because his attraction to Cas seems to be snowballing and there’s nothing he hates more than uncertainty. 

Things finally come to a head on the night of Dean’s tenth class, when he emerges from the locker room to find Cas laughing with one of his students again. It’s a guy tonight, some tall, dirty-blond surfer type who leans on the counter, while Cas takes the obvious interest in stride, his gaze coy like an invitation. It’s too much, Dean thinks, feeling a familiar, hideous emotion rear its head deep in his gut, and he hastily shoves his bag into a cubby before barging into the practice room, slamming the door loudly for Cas to hear. 

The temperature has cooled to agreeable, as opposed to hellish, but Dean is worked up and his skin dampens almost immediately. He’s standing rigidly in the empty room, not sure what he’s waiting for, and a few minutes pass in total silence until the door clicks and Cas saunters in. 

“Dean,” he calls quietly. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Dean snipes too quickly, a petulant reflex. He wouldn’t believe the answer himself and, going by his expression, neither does Cas. 

“It’s clearly not nothing.” Their eyes meet in the mirror and Cas pauses for Dean to fill in the blanks, sighing at the obstinacy. “Dean, don’t be like this. What is it?” 

“It’s _you_ , alright?” Dean growls, turning to face him. “Do you just flirt with everyone who comes through here? Chatting them up after class, offering massages, that your big play?” 

Cas frowns. “I don’t know what-” 

“Oh, don’t feign innocence, _Cas_ ,” Dean grits out. “I should’ve guessed when you let that girl bat her eyelashes at you. You fucking enjoy this.” 

“I think you’re misunderstanding something,” Cas suggests, with irritating composure. 

“Yeah, I did misunderstand. Christ, it’s such a huge cliché too, having the hots for your yoga instructor,” Dean laughs bitterly. “But know what, I thought you were actually interested, Cas.” 

“Dean, listen to me-” 

“I’m an idiot, right? The _heat_ must’ve fucked with my head or something ‘cause, I mean, you’re just interested in _riling people up_ so they keep coming back and-”

Dean stops talking – or, rather, he’s cut off by Cas. 

Cas’ lips. 

He can’t even remember seeing Cas close the distance between them but here they are, kissing, and Dean freezes because what the hell is happening. There’s no hurry or dominance in how Cas kisses him, both hands cradling Dean’s face, tongue slowly tracing the rise of Dean’s bottom lip. He moves into Dean’s space so carefully, each little gesture like asking for permission and, fuck, Dean can’t bring to mind what he was saying to Cas before this. 

“Yes, I flirt,” Cas admits solemnly when he pulls away. “But I don’t give massages to students who complain about back pain and I’ve definitely never _kissed_ any of them.” 

“I...” Dean’s brain is starting to feel like sludge, which would explain the gaping. 

“Where’s the rest of your tirade, Dean?” Cas teases as he reaches up to card his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Did I kiss you stupid?” 

“You-” Dean swallows. “Yeah. You may have. Care to do it again?” 

Cas laughs. “Love to.” 

The kiss is deeper this time with Cas’ exploratory mouth, his solid weight crowding Dean toward the mirrored wall then flush up against it. Dean groans at the cold surface striking his back and the warmth on his front, a sensual juxtaposition he didn’t realize he’d needed.

“How do you want me?” Cas murmurs. 

“I... Shit, Cas... I don’t know. I just-” And that’s the thing. Dean just _wants_ Cas; he hasn’t thought far enough ahead to imagine how. 

Cas nips at his jaw, teeth grazing though not quite biting. “Open-minded, huh? I can do that.” His hand drops to palm the hard line of Dean’s erection, making Dean gasp and buck into the pressure, his grip tight on Cas’ hips. 

“I don’t care, I just want- Just want you.” 

“... Then how about this.” Cas tilts his head to one side, breath falling into the shell of Dean’s ear. “How about you fuck me till you come... then you can return the favor and let me fuck you. Until I come. Would that be adequate?” 

“Fuck.” Dean’s head tips back, hitting the glass with a dull thud. “Yes. Please.” 

“Come here then.” 

Cas tugs on his shirt and Dean goes to him, heart pounding as Cas grabs the hem to drag it over his head. It’s negligently tossed aside and Cas’ fingers roam across Dean’s bared torso, inducing goose bumps and shivers with their soft, reverent touch. “Wanted you so much,” he says, peering up through lashes that are dark above lighter eyes, and it’s worth nothing all for Dean to lean in and lock their lips again, the kiss covetous and wet, Cas arching into it. 

They eventually end up on the floor, Cas on his back and Dean looming over him. They’re both a little breathless from kissing and Dean takes a second to stare at Cas’ swollen lips, slightly parted and so red, tempting him like a treat. When he does bend down, though, Dean’s mouth lands on Cas’ neck, tongue tracking the tendons and sucking greedy bruises into sensitive skin. He’s only incited further by Cas moaning his name beneath him, and he persists, selfish and possessive, marking Cas up for everyone to see. 

“ _Jesus_ , Dean...” Cas pants as Dean shifts the attention to the rest of his body, kissing, licking, stopping to tease a nipple to hardness. He lets out a gasp and fists his fingers in Dean’s hair as his hips hitch up instinctively, his clothed erection bumping into Dean’s chest like an eager, pleading request. Dean continues to trail kisses over Cas’ stomach until he’s mouthing at Cas’ dick, wickedly teasing some more so that Cas is writhing when his clothes come off. Dean then moves hastily to divest himself of his own shorts and underwear, and their cocks slide together lewdly as he resettles onto Cas. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Dean praises breathily, rocking his hips in a slow, sultry grind. Cas’ reply is masked by a groan but his hands are everywhere, desperate and urging, and it’s enough of a prompt for Dean to kiss him hard and ask, “Do you have the stuff we need?”

“Check my gym bag... in that corner. The front pouch.” Dean stumbles over to retrieve the items and hurries back to Cas, who smirks at him through hooded, lust-hazed eyes. “I’ve kept those in there for the past couple of weeks... just in case.” 

“Presumptuous of you,” Dean answers helplessly as he kneels between Cas’ thighs. The thought of Cas wanting him just as badly sears like a brand into his brain. “Maybe I should’ve played hard to get. I’m making it too easy.” 

“No,” Cas retorts plainly, gruff and stern. “It already can’t have been long enough.” 

“So impatient,” Dean chides, dick twitching hotly at the rough, gravelly voice. He tears open the foil packet and sheaths himself before pouring the gel onto one hand. “Impatient for me,” he revises smugly, using the other hand to spread Cas’ legs. He then reaches down to rub two slicked fingers against Cas’ entrance, smiling when Cas gasps and tries to thrust back. “Gonna make you feel so good. You want that, don’t you, Cas?”

“Yes. God, yes.” 

Cas’ body thrums with pleasure as the first digit sinks inside of him, leaving Dean in awe of the tight, splendid heat. When Cas hisses at the second finger, though, Dean waits for the muscles to relax, groaning at being allowed in further to resume working him open. He watches Cas’ every reaction, noting the shaky whimper at his fingers curling just right, but he refrains from hitting the spot on each pump for Cas’ sake, since he knows the guy doesn’t want to come yet. Despite all this, Cas bites his lip, struggling not to fall apart, and he looks so fucking beautiful that Dean bows down to kiss him and _kiss him_ , the sounds of lips and lazy scissoring creating one hell of an obscene soundtrack. 

“Are you ready?” The question comes out choked and tremulous but Dean figures that’s understandable, especially with Cas practically purring at him, pretty and sexy and needy. 

“ _Yes_. Dean, come on, I...” 

“I’ve got you,” Dean finishes, pulse racing at the smile he gets in return. 

Cas’ arms wind around his neck as Dean lubes up and pushes inside, the gradual stretch of muscle around his throbbing cock drawing a low moan from his throat. He slowly bottoms out while Cas groans and pulls at his hair, the faint pain overpowered by slick, sharp pleasure. He picks up the pace only when Cas’ breathing evens again, building up to a steady rhythm that soon has Castiel keening, panting. 

“Oh, fuck.” Cas’ eyes roll back and flutter shut, hands clutching blindly at Dean’s straining biceps. He hooks his ankles higher on Dean’s back, effectively changing the angle, and Dean cries out as he thrusts harder and harder, holding onto Cas’ hips as he ruts. 

“ _Cas_ , god,” he grunts, hips finally stuttering and losing finesse in their haste. Cas feels incredible, clenching and so fucking tight, and the lecherous sight of their joined bodies brings Dean closer to a breaking point with each vigorous plunge. 

He senses the pleasure coil in the pit of his stomach, his head spinning from the white sparks it sends through his nerves. He’s torn between relinquishing himself and having this last but then Cas whimpers and pulls him down for a sloppy kiss, and the rasp of Cas’ scruff against his chin is an added sensation that makes Dean just about ready to snap. 

“I’m close,” he gasps into the crook of Cas’ neck. “I’m so close, I- Cas, shit.” 

It doesn’t help that Cas is mewling, the soft noises tumbling out of his lush, spit-slick mouth. The way he grasps so fiercely at Dean is proof enough that he’s perched right on the precipice of his climax. 

“Dean,” he murmurs, the syllable alluringly wrecked. “Dean, I need- I need you to come for me. Come on, for me, baby.” 

His voice is so insistent and seductive that Dean could’ve probably come from the words alone, but when they’re followed up by Cas squeezing around his cock the ecstasy explodes within Dean like fireworks, a full-body shudder coursing through his frame as he pulses inside of Cas. 

He groans hot against Cas’ neck, quaking at the tremendous gratification, but he doesn’t have a chance to come down from the earth-shattering high before Cas flips them over, all too easily like Dean weighs nothing. 

Cas is trembling as well, shaking with the effort to hold off on his orgasm. He grabs the lube and second condom and preps himself swiftly, trying not to touch his body any more than necessary. As for Dean, it only takes a minute for him to get loosened up, since he’s blissed out and aching from the sight of Cas’ thick erection, bobbing against the precome leaked on that taut, tanned stomach. 

“Cas, do it,” he pants. “C’mon, I’m ready.”

“Fuck, Dean...” 

Cas’ eyes darken with want as he pushes in, his breaths harsh and ragged and gloriously rough. A coarse string of obscenities plummet onto Dean’s chest, and it’s all mind-blowingly carnal and dirty. Cas leans down to shove his hands under Dean’s shoulders, gripping them from behind, probably hard enough to bruise. He then uses the leverage to set a punishing pace, the position driving Dean to spread his legs even farther apart. 

“God, you feel amazing,” Cas breathes, utterly intoxicated, wild and lost in the act. Dean wants to say likewise but Cas is hitting his prostate with startling accuracy, and if he opened his mouth now he’d just scream from the aftershocks, so strong that they leave him gasping and reeling. 

The room sounds positively filthy, wet punches of breath and whimpering moans filling the muggy space around them. The lascivious slap of skin each time Cas slams into him rounds it all out, and Dean expects that he’ll be walking a little funny for at least the next few days. 

But Cas keeps going, hips snapping relentlessly and mouth sucking red all over Dean’s proffered neck. His muffled, feral grunts are scorching puffs of air that Dean can’t get enough of, and he loops both arms around Cas’ shoulders to pull him close and whisper “Yeah, like that, baby, _claim me_ ” directly into his ear.

That does the trick, it seems, because it’s three more thrusts as Cas is coming, smothering a loud, guttural moan on Dean’s throat as the release washes over him. Dean feels raw and full, his whole falling limp as Cas expands inside of him, and he shivers as the thrusts become sporadic and slow, dragging across the bundle of oversensitive nerves. Cas is buried in Dean as deeply as he can go, the final flex of his hips tilting Dean’s ass off the floor. Their bodies press together seamlessly, like a perfect, erotic puzzle, and when the climax recedes Cas collapses on top of him in a sloppy, sweaty pile.

“Holy shit,” he rumbles breathlessly. “I think I nearly passed out.”

Dean laughs and drops one hand to stroke along Cas’ back. “That was... something else.” 

Cas nods in agreement, tickling Dean’s cheek with his dark, sex-mussed hair. He nuzzles the jut of Dean’s collarbone and Dean sighs happily, sort of amazed that Cas wants to touch him _more_ even after all their previous exertion. Not that he’s complaining, of course. In fact- 

“I should send my doctor a thank you card.” 

“Mm, and what would it say?” 

“Thank you for recommending yoga...” Dean tapers with a grin. “P.S. I might injure my back again from banging the sexy instructor.” 

Cas chuckles and raises his head to kiss the underside of Dean’s jaw. “We’ll just fix you with more Bikram if that happens.” 

“Yeah... Speaking of, I should register for more classes ‘cause today was my last one. Maybe I’ll go with a membership this time.” 

“Sure,” Cas lays a hand on his chest, fingers splayed and tracing absent patterns on Dean’s flushed skin. “You know, there are postures not part of Bikram that are still excellent stretches for your back... Ones you could do at home.” 

“Yeah?” Dean’s lips twitch into a knowing smile. “Wanna teach me?” 

“Of course.” Cas props himself up on one elbow to look down at Dean, eyes mischievous and so blue that Dean could almost peer _through_ them. He can already tell that they’re gonna be the death of him. “Why don’t you come shower with me and I’ll tell you after.” 

“Hmm, that sounds good,” Dean murmurs, tugging Cas toward himself for a quick, chaste kiss. “Or, we can clean up then go back to my place... and have class there.” 

Cas quirks an eyebrow but the expression soon melts into a soft laugh, all fond and stirring a flutter in Dean’s stomach. “Okay,” he replies, his voice dropping lower. “A private lesson, it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Do leave me your thoughts and hit me up on [Tumblr](http://puppycastiel.tk)! :)


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